Legionnaire
by Mother-of-Monsters
Summary: To think that a soldier could be brought low by something as innocent as water.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Hello! This fic is dedicated to the lovely knightstippler (now ellbans) for her prompt 'Hospital garb' from the Johnlock Challenges Gift Exchange on Tumblr. I hope you like it, dearie, as it deviates from my usual writing style. Thanks for reading!_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or the character's used herein. They are the property of the BBC, the Moffat & Gatiss writing team, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may he rest in peace._

_Day -14_

While the case was a simple one (a standard domestic squabble gone horribly pear-shaped), it wasn't until Sherlock arrived on the scene that anyone even realized the dead couple's daughter was missing. As he pointed it out, in the same sort of blasé tone one might use when deciding between paper or plastic, the faces on every Yarder in the townhouse turned from one of grim confidence to total horror. A frantic search began in earnest, while Sherlock merely leaned back against the wall and snapped at John about how stupid they all were.

"Well, to be fair, you did just sort of throw a wrench in the works." John stuffed his hands in his pockets in a mulish way. "I'm going to help them look for her."

"Of course you are," the genius consultant sighed dramatically. "I suppose you are going to insist I join in as well?"

The look John tossed at him was enough of an answer. Sherlock peeled himself from the wall like a surly teenager and sulked his way up the stairs to glance at the girl's room. It only took him half a minute to deduce that she had fled into the empty flat downstairs to hide from the violence her parents had begun.

"She's downstairs!" he shouted as he rumbled rapidly back down to the main floor.

Lestrade met him in the living room, where the forensic technicians were just packing up their equipment. There was a smug smile gracing the Inspector's face, and Sherlock fought down his irritation. The DI rocked on his heels, "John's already gone down to get her. He noticed the door down to the basement flat was open and the air conditioner was on."

Unable to stop the proud smirk that quirked his lips, Sherlock hummed in surprise, "The good doctor shows promise, as always. Your officers should be ashamed."

"The man is a bloody soldier, Sherlock," Lestrade's voice managed to be both exasperated and fond, "it stands to reason he'd be good at finding someone bent on hiding."

Snorting, the detective schooled his features to show boredom instead of smug pride when his flatmate and friend appeared with the little girl cradled in his arms. She was fast asleep against the doctor's chest, one hand clutching at the drab jumper he wore. A pair of handy paramedics swarmed him and scooped the child up, carrying her away to the ambulance outside.

With a soldierly nod, John shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and smiled kindly. "Found her tucked away in the empty pantry downstairs. I looked in every room down there until I heard her sniffling." Glancing at the doorway through which his tiny patient had disappeared, John shook his head sadly. "S'bloody cold down there with that AC blasting like it was. Last tenants must have left it on."

"Astute observation, Watson. Perhaps from now on I will send you out to the boring cases." Sherlock gave his companion a snarky grin.

John retaliated with a two-fingered salute, "Tosser."

Lestrade laughed at the two of them with a fatherly sort of way. "Alright you two. If you're going to start slinging insults at each other, you can both kindly sod off."

"Professional," John rolled his eyes sarcastically. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's leave his nibs to his crime scene and paperwork."

"Yes, heaven forbid we get under his feet with so much work ahead of him. We'll get Chinese. I know a wonderful place nearby that serves the best spring rolls in the county."

"Of course you do."

_Day -12_

Flu season had started a week ago, and Sherlock was cultivating a cold because John had forced him to get a damned inoculation. Consequently, he refused to look at or speak to his flatmate for several days. John, used to such petulance, ignored Sherlock's 'misery' for all of six hours before he finally left the flat in search of cold medicine. He wandered the medicine isle with a practiced eye, before selecting a daytime and a nighttime pair of pill packets and a bag of natural, mentholated throat drops.

Upon his return, John swiftly made his way to the kettle, where he performed his tea-making ritual without sparing a moment to actually look in on his flatmate. Sweetening the beverage with a more than liberal amount of honey, the doctor snapped a pair of daytime pills from their pack and walked his way into the living room. He found his resident annoyance flopped on the floor in front of the sofa like a dead fish.

"Oh for the love of," John bit off his irritated statement with a grunt and placed Sherlock's mug onto the table before hauling the detective back onto the sofa. He shoved the tea mug into his friend's hands, then gently stuffed a warm afghan around the detective's skinny frame. "Here are two, non-drowsy, over-the-counter strength pills. Drink them with your bloody tea, and stop acting like you're dying."

"We're all dying, John." the detective groaned theatrically.

"My God you are the biggest bloody drama queen I have ever seen in my life."

"I'm glad my slow, miserable death is amusing to you."

Rolling his eyes, the doctor shook his head and took up his own mug of tea before dropping tiredly into his chair. "It will be over in a few days, Sherlock."

"You know, your bedside manner leaves something to be desired." Sherlock waited a whole six minutes before announcing, "I'm bored."

John hid himself behind his newspaper.

"Entertain me. Read me the paper. Aloud." The detective waited two minutes for John to comply before sighing, "Even prisoners are granted a last request, _doctor_."

"I'm not reading you the bloody paper." The flat was silent again, except for a loud thump and a sigh of gusty ennui. John let his head fall back with a growl of frustration, "You've rolled off onto the floor again, haven't you?"

A muffled whine came from somewhere behind the coffee table. Refolding the paper, John dragged himself up and slowly made his way into the kitchen again. "If I make you some damned soup and put in one of the Planet Earth DVD's, will you at least try to rest?"

This statement was followed by a contemplative pause, and then, "Can we watch the penguins?"

"Yes we can watch the bloody penguins."

Some people, John thought to himself as bent down to fetch a large pot from beneath the counter, would find it hard to believe Sherlock Holmes was really just a big child. Some of the simplest things could make the detective behave like a five-year-old on Christmas morning. Bracing a hand on his knee, John dragged himself back upright and swayed where he stood.

With the same efficiency he used to diagnose his patients (and occasionally his flatmate), John took stock of his suddenly aching joints, the cough that forced its way out of his lungs, and the floating sort of feeling that overtook his mind for a moment. As his diagnosis solidified, John sighed in a defeated way and mumbled, "Damn it."


	2. Chapter 2

_AN: Hello! This fic is dedicated to the lovely knightstippler (now ellbans) for her prompt 'Hospital garb' from the Johnlock Challenges Gift Exchange on Tumblr. I hope you like it, dearie, as it deviates from my usual writing style. Thanks for reading!_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or the character's used herein. They are the property of the BBC, the Moffat & Gatiss writing team, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may he rest in peace._

_Day -10_

It took Sherlock two long days to get over his cold, but John's symptoms lingered. It didn't seem to matter how many pills or how strong the dosage, none of the medications he tried seemed to make a dent in his sickness. So, he did what he always did when he felt poorly – tried to ignore it until it went away, and made sure to wear a nice, warm jumper beneath his hospital coat.

Big. Mistake.

_Day -9_

Sherlock finished his latest case, a small but nonetheless stimulating one, and performed his customary 'flatmate check' glance to discern if John was following him out of Scotland Yard. He wasn't; in fact, the doctor was no where in his scope of vision. That was quite odd, considering John rarely let the detective our of his sight when there were people around that Sherlock might insult.

"I think he's in the loo, Sherlock," Lestrade sighed, shuffling the papers on his desk from one side to the other.

Humming in lieu of answering, Sherlock slipped out of the Inspector's office and down the corridor to the public lavatories. Shoving open the door of the men's room, he found John just turning off the faucet of the sink. The doctor glanced over at him tiredly, and Sherlock frowned as his eyes scanned the man before him.

_Pale skin, sweating at the temples and hairline, slight flush to cheeks – possible fever. Slight favoring of the right leg suggests emotional discomfort. Tremor in left hand suggests exhaustion._

"You," Sherlock pointed an accusing finger at his friend, "are ill."

John rolled his eyes so hard his head lolled to one side, "Brilliant deduction, that. It's just," the doctor immediately stopped speaking and began to cough. No, not cough, _hack_, loudly and wetly. Once he was able to finally catch his breath, the doctor rocked his head on his neck and Sherlock could hear the crack of his bones. "It's just a chest cold, Sherlock. I'll be fine in a few days."

"We both got the same inoculation, you should be over it by now," the detective frowned.

Shaking his head dismissively, John ventured, "Let's not forget the fact that, due to my profession, I am regularly exposed to sick people, unlike a certain," the doctor paused to cough painfully again, then continued, "anti-social consulting detective, who shall remain nameless."

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully, "See if I ever express concern for your health again."

"Now you're just being ridiculous." John began to cough again and grimaced. "Go on outside and use your magical taxi summoning powers. I'll meet you there."

With a shrug of indifference, Sherlock made his way back out into the hallway and prowled his way to the main lobby of the Yard. Lestrade waved at him through the office window, but Sherlock did not deem any sort of acknowledgment necessary. It wasn't until he was outside, standing with the door of the cab open, that he realized John was no where in sight. Grumbling his exasperation, he returned to the building and stopped stone dead in the middle of the hall at the scene in front of Lestrade's office.

Laying on the floor, with Donovan standing over him shouting into a radio handset, was a pale, unconscious Dr John Watson. Lestrade was struggling to pull John's jacket and shirt open, and shouting for someone, anyone, to run down and snag one of the portable oxygen tanks from the Hazmat response team downstairs. Sergeant Donovan shrieked for an ambulance as John began to twitch in a seizure.

It took him three long strides and a four-foot skid on his knees to reach the Inspector's side and gently help to roll John onto his side. The convulsions did not last very long, perhaps a minute, but it seemed interminable to Sherlock. Immediately after the seizure, John began to cough wetly again, and from this close the detective could actually hear the doctor's lungs rattling.

A paramedic pushed him roughly aside, and her partner did the same to Lestrade. The Inspector wrapped a hand around his elbow as John went into another seizure, and it was a measure of Sherlock's discomfort that he did not pull away from the grip. With the swift efficiency born of training and repetition, the paramedics waited for the doctor to stop shaking before bundling him onto a stretcher and out of the building to their waiting ambulance.

"Come on, Sherlock," the Inspector said quietly, "we'll follow them in a police car."

Instead of answering, Sherlock nodded nervously and pulled his phone out of his pocket. As he followed Lestrade out of the building, he texted the one number he both despised and needed desperately: **My – St Barts. Now. - SH**

_Day -8_

Mycroft Holmes was a powerful man. He could face down dictators at breakfast, tyrants over tea, and often have a drink with a war criminal just after dinner. He could make someone disappear with a text message, or start a war with a phone call. Mycroft Holmes is not the sort of man to back down.

Unless, of course, he is faced with an extremely belligerent, and very drunk, Harriet Watson. Mycroft was going to have to revise his opinion of Dr John H Watson once again, considering the fact that the man had managed to grow to adulthood without being murdered in his sleep by his sister. Judging by the shiner that now adorned Sherlock's right eye, John must have been made of iron, rather than blood and bone, to survive a childhood in the Watson household.

Taking hold of his brother's arm, Mycroft steered them into the ICU waiting room, which was as far away from Harry's viciously spewed insults as Sherlock was willing to get. The younger Holmes immediately began pacing along the floor. Mycroft sighed in annoyance before walking over to the nurse's station to request an ice pack for his sibling's eye.

"I don't need your coddling, Mycroft," Sherlock hissed, pressing the cold pack against his occular orbit.

"If I recall correctly, which you know I do, you were the one that contacted me."

"Yes, and if I recall correctly, you are the British Government, and yet you still can't get John a private room or force Ms Watson to allow me access to his records or let me take a sample of fluids from him in order to figure out what has him so very ill!" Sherlock's voice rose with every word until the whole room was staring at him in shock and the Supervising Nurse was reaching for the phone, presumably to summon security.

"Sherlock," Mycroft tugged his errant sibling to a quiet corner of the room and shoved him into a seat. "There are some procedures even I cannot interrupt. If you will, for once, take my advice? Go. Home."

"Mycroft," Sherlock's angry retort was immediately cut off by the swipe of his brother's hand through the air.

"Go back to Baker Street, brother dear, and use those powers of deduction you are so fond of touting for all the world to see. Apply them to your friend's condition. Re-trace your steps." Mycroft gave the detective's shoulder a shake. "Find point zero for John's infection, that's your only way to help John now."


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: Hello! This fic is dedicated to the lovely knightstippler (now ellbans) for her prompt 'Hospital garb' from the Johnlock Challenges Gift Exchange on Tumblr. I hope you like it, dearie, as it deviates from my usual writing style. Thanks for reading!_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or the character's used herein. They are the property of the BBC, the Moffat & Gatiss writing team, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may he rest in peace._

_Day -8_

It took Sherlock three hours to completely retrace their steps from the past several days, and another two to convince Inspector Lestrade to help him regain access to the case from six days before.

In six minutes, he had narrowed down the one place that John had been that no one else had.

He had a water sample from the basement apartment master bedroom's air conditioner in under a minute.

Including the half hour it took him to return home in a cab, it took him 2 minutes to theorize and confirm his diagnosis.

Within another twenty minutes, he was being yanked backwards by security in Saint Bart's hospital as he shouted at the top of his lungs, "It's Legionellosis!"

He was thrown out of the hospital for twenty minutes, until Dr Mike Stanford came to fetch him from outside, saying simply, "You're right, of course. Legionnaire's disease. We've got him on levofloxacin now. You'll be even happier to know, last time John was conscious he kicked Harry out and signed a form to make you his medical proxy."

"Spare me the details, get me inside."

_Day -7_

As he listened to the steady noise of the heart monitor, Sherlock Holmes, genius consulting detective, pondered how strange it was that something as essential to life as water could also be so very deadly. Never had he thought it would be this bad. He smoothed another crease out of the blanket beneath his long fingers and fiddled with a stray thread trying to escape from the sleeve of the pale blue hospital gown wrapped around John's thinning frame. The cogs of his mind whirled as he replayed the last two weeks, trying to figure out what he had missed, where he had faltered, what he could have done to prevent...but it was no use. There was only chance to blame; chance and that stupid spa.

"Molly told me a joke today." His voice was much softer than normal, barely more than a soft whisper. "Two scientists walk into a bar, and one orders a glass of H2O. His companion then says, 'I'd like a glass of H2O too'. When both their drinks arrive, the first man finishes his glass in one long draught, and the second dies just after his first swallow. Can you guess why?" Only the cyclic 'bwoop bweep' of the machine answered him.

A smooth voice behind him made him cringe, "Because H2O2 is a deadly poison when consumed."

"Go away, Mycroft!" The detective spat out in clipped tones.

Instead of his brother's voice, the only sound he could hear above the beeping was his brother's expensive shoes and umbrella tapping along the hospital linoleum. His elder brother was silent for a long moment before asking, in an oddly kind tone, "How is he?"

"Asleep."

"Yes, Sherlock, even that pathetic pathologist you despise could have observed that." Mycroft was he only person Sherlock had ever known besides Mummy who could make exasperation sound almost elegant. "I was asking for a more in depth analysis in regards to whether or not our dear friend shall recover."

The chair the detective had been occupying clattered to the floor as he rose abruptly, trying his best to loom menacingly over his brother. "_My_ friend shall recover in due time, no thanks to you!"

"Sherlock, the mortality rate..."

"Do not speak to _me_ about disease mortality rates!" Sherlock hissed venomously. "Get out, Mycroft! Get out of this room before I commit fratricide!"

For a long moment, while Sherlock shook with impotent rage, Mycroft simply stared into his younger brother's pale eyes and his face softened. Their gazes stayed locked for a full two minutes before Sherlock slumped weakly onto the edge of the hospital bed and pushed his face into his hands. As his younger sibling took a moment to recompose himself, Mycroft awkwardly set the toppled chair back onto it's legs and twirled his umbrella against the floor.

Even more awkwardly, he helped his brother back into the chair, and searched out one of his own. They sat in silence for another half an hour, with Sherlock staring at the spike and valley of the EKG and Mycroft gazing without focus at the rain-spattered window on the other side of the room. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock brought his fingers to his lips as if in prayer, and Mycroft glanced side-long at him.

"I think," the detective said, in a quiet, considering way, "I may be afraid."

Mycroft held his breath quietly, afraid to so much as blink. His brother had not confided in him (without an intervention) since they were small children.

Sherlock gripped the arms of his chair, his eyes lowering to some spot on the floor. It was some time before he spoke again, in a slightly strained, small voice, "He's my only friend, My."

Slowly, Mycroft brought a hand to his little brother's shoulder, squeezed it lightly, and left it there. The fact that Sherlock did not shrug him off spoke even more volumes than the slight tremor shaking the detective's frame. Focusing his gaze on the still body of John Watson lying prone in the hospital bed before them, Mycroft answered just as quietly, "I know, 'Lock. I know."

_Day __-5_

When he arrived at the hospital that morning, he hoped to find his best friend at least awake. What he found was an empty room.

"Oi! Sherlock!"

Turning to find Mike Stamford behind him, Sherlock lurched forward and grabbed the small man by the shoulders. "Mike," he growled, but the doctor cut him off.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Sherlock. He's been moved to a private room, courtesy of your brother." Smiling jovially, the plump doctor clapped the detective on the elbows. "And he's awake."

Sherlock's smile was brilliant for the half a second it was visible before he disappeared down the hallway.

He got turned around four times before he lowered himself to ask a nurse for John's room number.


	4. Chapter 4

_AN: Hello! This fic is dedicated to the lovely knightstippler (now ellbans) for her prompt 'Hospital garb' from the Johnlock Challenges Gift Exchange on Tumblr. I hope you like it, dearie, as it deviates from my usual writing style. Thanks for reading! (Yes, I know, it's kind of a short ending.)_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or the character's used herein. They are the property of the BBC, the Moffat & Gatiss writing team, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may he rest in peace._

_Day -4_

"Welcome home, John."

"Thanks, Sherlock. It's good to be...you want me to make tea, don't you?"

"Tea would be lovely, yes."

_Day -2_

"You shouldn't have been so hard on him."

"Lestrade, John's lungs still sound like someone is making bacon inside them. He would only slow us down if we end up having to chase Mr Bradley across the Chiswick."

"Mr Bradley?"

"Well it sure as hell wasn't his neighbor. Did you see the man's tie rack?"

"You're taking this even harder than John, aren't you?"

"Just keep your meager intelligence focused on getting us to the Bradley's without crashing into a road sign."

_Present Day_

The silence permeating the flat is a rare one, broken by neither unfortunate miniature explosion nor the sound of police sirens in the distance. Sherlock finds himself oddly content with the silence, because it means one very important thing:

John is no longer coughing.

"Let's play Clue-do."

"Not on your life." John's tone suggests he is smirking. "However, I would be willing to accompany you to the morgue."

Sherlock shakes his head and wiggles his hand in dismissal, "I've nothing on at the moment."

"Well a little birdie told me that you were waiting," the doctor's tone is intriguing enough that Sherlock sits up like a hound on the hunt, "for an opportunity to test your theory about the formation of postmortem bruises developing over marks of lividity."

"Would that little birdie be named Molly by any chance."

"Stamford, actually. Mentioned it at my last check up." John places his newspaper to the side and grins jovially. "However, I did manage to convince Molly to help out."

The detective smiles broadly and claps his hands together in almost girlish glee. "John, you got me a cadaver?"

"Actually, I got you 3." John laughs as Sherlock hops up from his seat on the sofa and bounces around the flat like a giddy schoolboy. "I even scrounged up a bullwhip in addition to your riding crop." At the look he gains at this confession, John gifts his flatmate with a mysterious expression and refuses to comment further.

Sherlock's grin never falters, "You do realize that it is November and therefore neither the holidays nor my birthday."

"Consider it a thank you." When all this gains John is a curious tilt of the detective's head, the doctor explains, "Mike also told me that it was you who really figured out that I had caught Legionnaire's disease. You saved my life Sherlock." John's smile is bright as the sun.

For all of four seconds Sherlock pauses and stares at his friend with a blank expression on his stoic face. It breaks into a lopsided grin, "Ironic isn't it?"

"What? That you saved my life when you're the one who usually puts it in jeopardy?"

"No, that you, a soldier, were almost killed by a disease with the name 'Legionnaire'."

John's laugh is just as bright as his smile.

**Fin**


End file.
